Small Victories

There was no possibility of taking a walk this morning, and so I took advantage of the wet weather to catch up on some much needed cleaning. Things had come to a head when I lay in the hall with my leg up the door jamb, as you do, stretching out my hamstrings, and from that unusual angle noticed cobwebs all around the bottom of the front door and lodged in the corners. I looked closer in other rooms, and it was the same. Could this really be my home, or that of some arthritic, myopic crone? I had to act quickly. I decided to work my way around the house systematically, starting with the smallest room, the cloakroom. I'm talking windows, door panels, light fixtures, pictures and skirting boards here, as well as loos and wash basins: none of your namby pamby flicking a duster around. There are no fewer than 11 rooms in this house including the hall/stairs, and then there's the summerhouse. Flies and wasps love it here, and they leave evidence of their visits on every glass surface. It hasn't been easy, but I've made a start now, and I'm pleased to report that my winter lethargy has been replaced by a summer fitness from all that hard work in the garden. Even washing windows didn't defeat me. OK, I didn't get all the way around. It's a big house. Cut me some slack. (Note: slight hint of internal critical monologue creeping in here, but I've banished it again).

Another small achievement was playing an opera, an old Sunday tradition. It was Richard Strauss's Die Frau Ohne Shatten, one of my collection with just a small emotional attachment to my lost past. Yes, it was painful at times, but it's such a thrilling piece that I was mostly uplifted and inspired. No, that's not absolutely true. "Mostly" wasn't quite the word, but "sometimes" still felt like a small victory. It's a strange fact that I've always felt a strong affinity with the lost Habsburg Empire, mainly through music. Austro-Hungary doesn't feature in my genealogical line as far as I know, there being mostly Murphys, and that other murphy, the spud. Yes, we had cabbage, mostly boiled to a pulp, but it didn't really resemble saurkraut or borscht. So why the affinity? Der Rosenkavalier, for example, always provokes an acute sadness that is not just personal but also belongs to a lost ruling class that I could never have supported, never mind been a part of. There's a yearning in the music, a wistfulness that always makes me think of 19th-century Vienna. All nonsense of course, but Strauss's music is invariably beautiful, and I've broken my duck now. I might try Verdi next. That'll be a test.